American Horror Story - Season 2AU E9 - Xmas
by leaftheweed
Summary: You better watch out. You better not cry. Santa's got a big red sack but those aren't toys he's got in there. The Bloody Face killer is locked up in Briarcliff... or is he? For Christmas, the hospital gets a new owner but will it be a blessing? Or a curse? The holiday spirit's a vengeful one—it's going to be silent night, deadly night for someone.
1. Chapter 1 - Punishment

Tap-tap-tap.

That's all it took to break through the thin layer of bone with the ice pick-like orbitoclast and into the brain. Dr. Freeman angled the tool sharply inward, imagining the areas he believed he was severing. He knew a brain's layout from studying many cadavers. He didn't feel he needed to see the brain he was working on. Weren't they all basically the same, after all?

"The patient will experience bruising around the eyes," he told the men who were gathered around, watching him perform the procedure. "Muscle spasms. Those will subside within thirty minutes. Sometimes depressive symptoms return within a week but those are residual and easily cured with another course of electroshock."

Electroshock was what he had used in lieu of sedation for this operation. It was quicker than waiting for a sedative to take effect. He tap-tapped the tool into the patient's other eye socket and repeated the blind raking motion. Then he extracted the orbitoclast, wiping away the trace amounts of blood from the tool before dropping it on a nearby utensil tray.

"And that's all there is to it," he said and sent a self-satisfied smile around at his colleagues. "With experience, you can easily do twenty to thirty a day. More, if necessary. I personally performed fifty over a five hour period."

The patient began to twitch erratically. The other doctors in the room watched the man nervously but Dr. Freeman had seen the seizures before. "There's the spasms," he reassured. "Right on schedule."

He laughed and most of the other men chuckled with him.

—

George Bruner went to college to get a degree in Psychology. He wanted to be part of a system that could help people like his aunt. Aunt Clara had suffered from delusions but was generally harmless. Sending her to Briarcliff had seemed like a reasonable thing for her children to do after their father died and none of the kids had room to care for her in their homes. At Briarcliff, they could visit and send care packages and know that she was being cared when she was suffering from one of her delusional moments of fantasy.

Aunt Clara was dead within two weeks, supposedly from pneumonia. She went fast, but not so fast that she wasn't able to get a note out to her family, accusing the facility of abuse. There wasn't much the police could do when the family took the note to them. It was the word of a "crazy dead woman" against that of the asylum. There was no way the family could win.

They needed more proof, and that's exactly what George intended to get. He pitched the project to his Humanities professor, who was a progressive man who welcomed the chance to expose the system. He helped George obtain fake identification with a new name, and helped him write up the proposal paperwork necessary. From there, it was all on "John" to collect the story they needed.

For months John lived among the patients, pretending to be just crazy enough that the hospital wouldn't release him but not so insane that he might suffer severe consequences. That was the plan, anyway: Fly under the radar until the end of the project.

Just one more month and the project would be over. The college could publish their daring field reporter's findings. It promised to be big. Bigger than big. But something went wrong with the plan.

After the content of his notebooks was discovered, Briarcliff went into action. The staff simply couldn't afford another scandal. The notebooks were destroyed in the morgue oven. John was just as easily dealt with: They strapped him to a gurney and wheeled him off, screaming his true identity and protests, to Dr. Freeman's operating theater where he was shocked into stupor.

After the lobotomy, John never felt the need to scream or protest again.

.

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

.

 **December 1888**

Brother Felix checked the tunnel hall both ways before letting himself into the Physical Therapy room. The large room was outfitted with several machines considered state of the art: A stationary bicycle, a medicine ball, a contraption that simulated horseback riding, and another that would jiggle a person who wore the two wide belts connected to it.

The devices weren't the reason he was in the room, though. His reason for coming was Sister Mary Paul. Her real name was Eliza and she'd fallen in love with him, and he with her. Their love was forbidden. It was a violation of their vows that led to further sins of the flesh. They had to be careful, so Sister Mary Paul was concerned when Brother Felix slipped her a note at dinner requesting she meet him.

"What is it?" she asked him quietly after they'd shared a quick, passionate kiss.

He took her hands and gazed intently into her eyes. "Brother Abel knows. He followed us to the mill the other night and he's trying to blackmail us." He could see the fear growing in her eyes so he gave her hands a comforting squeeze. "We need to leave tonight. Now. Go pack a bag. Only take what you absolutely need. I'll meet you here in fifteen minutes."

"How? We have no money," Mary Paul was growing more frightened by the passing moment.

He released her hands and cupped her face, then gave her another quick kiss. "Don't worry, darling. I'll take care of everything. Just hurry up and get your things."

She nodded and put a hand over his briefly before he released her. He went to the door then, intending to do just as he instructed her. When he opened the door, however, he was met by a band of dour priests led by Father Mackenzie. He was in a righteous fury.

"Take them," he commanded his brethren. His disgust was plain in the way he spat the words.

—

Brother Felix was hanged from one of the trees in the orchard beyond Briarcliff's mill. His body was left up for three days as a sign to any others who might consider forsaking their vows to the church. Food for the crows. Sister Mary Paul was taken to the tunnels where she was bricked up in one of the walls. The masonry was so tightly packed, her screams for forgiveness couldn't be heard once the last brick went in.

...

 **1968 - 1 week before Christmas**

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

Tate was at Confession, seated in the parishioner's side. A priest twice his age sat on the other side of the gridded window.

"It's been... Fuck. Years since I last confessed," Tate went on. He lit a cigarette. "But lately I can't stop touching myself. I jerk off whenever I can. I've gotten it down so I can get off in under a minute in the shower."

He was lying. He would love it if he could get off that quick but he couldn't and the orderlies wouldn't let him alone in the shower long enough to get off. But it was fun saying it to the priest, just to hear him cough and shift around uncomfortably.

"You need to resist these urges," the older man counseled.

"Oh, but I don't want to," Tate volleyed with a grin. He blew smoke through the little window. "In fact, if it weren't for Sister Jude and her love of caning people, I'd probably jerk off all the time. Don't you like to jerk off, Father? "

The priest made a fake cough to let the patient know the smoke wasn't appreciated. "If physical penance is what you need more of, that can be arranged."

Tate's smile died. He wasn't sure but it sounded like the priest was threatening him. It hadn't occurred to him that the guy might tattle on him. "You can't tell anybody what I say in here, can you?"

"No," said the clergyman. "But I can make recommendations to my superiors about what spiritual path might be most effective for you."

Tate frowned. He was sure that was a threat, if a veiled one. He sucked on his cigarette angrily. Suddenly confession wasn't so much fun. "Look, I just wanted to have a smoke break and a few laughs," he said, finally opting for bailing out. It was undignified but he really didn't want another caning. "I didn't mean any of that."

"Lying is a mortal sin," the priest said. "Do you know what that is?"

It was Tate's turn to shift in his seat. He knew exactly what that meant, having grown up Catholic. "I wasn't lying," he amended. "More like... exaggerating. I do jerk off whenever I can. I just don't get that many opportunities anymore."

"You must resist those urges," the priest said again. "Yield not to temptation. Try singing a hymn when you feel the urge come on."

Tate rolled his eyes and pulled a last drag off his cigarette then put it out on the doorjamb, making sure to grind it out good so he didn't set the wooden box on fire while he was in it. "I'll try that. Can I go now?"

"Do you know your prayers?"

"Yeah."

"Five Hail Marys and seven Our Fathers."

Tate rolled his eyes again and stepped out of the cubby. A cloud of smoke came with him.

He wasn't at all surprised when, later that evening, Sister Jude had him brought to her office and caned him.

—

Tate's backside was on fire and every step was pain. He was looking forward to collapsing on his cot when he got back to his cell but when Byron let him in, he found he had a new roommate. Someone was laying on the mattress that was on the floor. The guy was curled up tight against the cold. Between the darkness and the fact that the other patient had his blanket pulled up to shield his face from the chill as well, Tate couldn't tell anything about him other than he had dark hair.

He followed through with his plan and collapsed until morning.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

We're on the 2nd-to-last Episode now. I didn't have to try hard to find inspiration for this one. America and the United Kingdom both supplied some fodder for this chapter. Dr. Walter Freeman, as mentioned before, is based on the real doctor by the same name. If you really want a scare, check out Amazon's "LORE" series. The second episode has a reenactment of Dr. Freeman performing a lobotomy that's gut-wrenchingly realistic. The show's made by folks who worked on the X-Files and The Walking Dead.

The second segment references a ghost story from the Borley Rectory in Essex. Interestingly, Borley was also tapped for Silent Hill. The haunted house in the Lakeside Amusement Park is the Borley Haunted Mansion.

I know this is supposed to be American horror stories but there are so many bizarre stories out there, I just can't restrict myself.


	2. Chapter 2 - Tables are Turned

...

The locks clanking open woke Tate to a freezing cold world. He shivered and curled up in a tight ball, wishing he'd worn his sweater to bed.

"All out!" an orderly called and banged on someone's door with a baton. "Let's move it, you snow faeries. Breakfast isn't getting any warmer."

Tate groaned his objection to the order. He did not want to leave the relative heat of his wool blanket and face the cold air.

"Oh, Jesus," muttered a voice near the floor.

Tate had a roommate. He'd forgotten that overnight. He poked his head out of his blanket and looked over to see who the new guy was. His eyes got big when he found himself looking down at a familiar face.

"Doctor Thredson?" he boggled. "What're you doing in here?"

The man squinted up at him from the thin mattress on the floor. His black hair was a mess and his glasses were off. He almost looked like another man entirely, to Tate.

"They didn't tell you?" Thredson had assumed since Shelley seemed to know something that his downfall wasn't a secret. Apparently the girl hadn't shared her gossip with Tate.

The teen confirmed that with a shake of his head. "They don't tell me jack."

Oliver sat up and wrapped himself in his blanket. "Someone framed me for the Bloody Face murders."

"I said all out, gentlemen!" barked Roman, the orderly, banging on the door to their cell with the baton he carried.

They both got moving then. Tate put on his dad's old brown sweater with the cable knitting along the bottom. The thing was straight out to the 50s.

"Is it like this every morning?" Thredson grumbled as he headed for the door.

Tate followed him. "Pretty much. Some days it's worse. Some days, Sister Jude comes around to oversee things."

They got in line. Oliver tried to run his hands through his hair to tame it but without his V05 hair gel, it was impossible to tame the black mop. When he looked over at Tate, the teen was staring at him.

"What?"

Tate shrugged and grinned. "You look weird. With the hair and the chin," he rubbed his own jaw to denote stubble, though he had none to speak of himself. "You look like somebody else."

"Believe me, I'm still me," Thredson assured with a look that said he didn't intend to let the situation change their social balance any. "This is all a big mistake. Things will go back to normal once they've sorted everything out." It was the biggest lie he'd told lately but he needed to have at least one person under his control. Even tenuously.

"So should I still call you doctor?"

Oliver thought about that then nodded. "I think it would be best."

Tate smiled. "All right, doctor."

He believed the man. Thredson just seemed to cool and confident to be guilty, to Tate's judgment. He thought he knew the man pretty well after spending so much time with him. The teen didn't know much about the crimes he was accused of and didn't much care. The outside world was so far away now, it may as well be a fantasy world.

...

Dawn hadn't even touched the horizon yet but Sister Jude was already awake. The chill in the air had woken her and she curled up on her side to try to conserve warmth before she had to rise. She shut her eyes and thought about what she had to do during the day. Her thoughts wandered to the Monsignor Howard and she wondered if he was stirring now, too, of if he was already awake. Showering, possibly.

She imagined the water hitting his bare skin, washing suds from his muscular frame. The thought made her crotch wet. Her hands were already tucked between her thighs for warmth. It was far too easy to just reach out and brush her panties with the tips of her fingers. It was sinful and she would ask forgiveness later but in the moment, she lost control. Soon her hand was strumming furiously, making the blankets bob with the motion. Distracted by the cloth, she cast it aside and spread her legs. Her fingers went to work again and she arched her back as the pleasure grew more intense.

The door flew open with a bang, scaring her half to death. She hastily yanked her hand away from her privates and pulled her nightgown down, ready to berate Sister Mary Eunice for bursting in without knocking again. Only it wasn't the younger nun standing there, staring at her.

It was the Reverend Monsignor Howard.

"Sister," he said and immediately had to clear his throat. "Forgive the intrusion but you are needed urgently in my office."

He left hastily, pulling the door shut behind himself. The man took a deep breath and released it. He could feel his face heating up and was glad no one was around to see it. He headed back to his office then. He had intended to brief the nun better but his focus was shot. She would learn the nature of the emergency when she got to his office.

—

Sister Jude was met with a strange sight when she arrived. The Reverend Monsignor was there and so was the Judicial Vicar, along with two men in black suits the nun didn't recognize and Dandy Mott. He was wearing a cream-colored suit with a bright red and white striped tie. He had a cream felt hat on but when she entered, he removed it respectfully. His hair was neatly combed and Brill creamed in place. He'd used some of his mother's liquid foundation makeup in an attempt to make the scars on his face less prominent.

"Sister," he greeted before anyone else could speak. "It's good to see you again."

"Dandy..?" she said. Then, to the clergymen: "What's going on?"

The Vicar answered her. "Briarcliff has been sold. This is Mr. Dandy Mott. Mr. Mott is the new owner of the hospital."

Sister Jude shot a wide-eyed look at Monsignor Howard, who spread his hands and gave his head a little shake. He didn't know much more than she did and was equally unprepared for the news.

"But—" Sister Jude faltered. "Dandy Mott is—"

"I'm your new financier," the dark-haired young man interrupted with a little bow from the waist, his hat over his heart. He smiled at her and she could see the cunning in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing. "The answer to your prayers, fiscally speaking. I don't intend to change things here at Briarcliff. I simply want to help make this place the best it can be. Does the bakery need a new oven? Done. Do the radiators in your personal quarters need repair? Done! Simply make a wish list and it's as good as done."

Her hand settled over her breastbone and looked over at Monsignor Howard again. They shared a look. They both knew he was blatantly trying to bribe their silence. The hospital hadn't reported his escape; they couldn't very easily do it now that he owned the place. It would look strange at the very least. Unbelievable at best.

"I'm.. sure... there are a few things Briarcliff has been in want for," the Monsignor said haltingly. He could practically feel the sin staining him from the inside.

Dandy's smile was brilliant. "Just say the word," he said charmingly. Then he put the smile away for a more businesslike look, brows high. "I would like to meet with the senior staff. Individually. I prefer to get to know my employees personally before we enter a working relationship."

"Of—Of course, Mr. Mott," the priest stammered. He would have to scramble to let everyone know.

"It's Dandy. Please," the young man smiled again. "Mr. Mott was my father."

...

Monsignor Howard said a good long prayer than night: For himself, for Briarcliff, and for Sister Jude. During the evening meal, he had instructed the nun to come to his chambers at midnight for her penance. What had happened that morning was a sensitive matter and an extremely private transgression. It needed to be handled discreetly. The less people who knew, the better.

Sister Jude also spent time in prayer, on her knees with hands clasped, heart racing with anxiety. She didn't fear the Monsignor. It was just difficult to face him thinking about what he'd seen her doing. Having to confess and explain herself. He was as strict a disciplinarian as herself; she knew the consequences and was braced for that. It was his personal opinion she feared. Oh, what he must think of her!

She went to him that night, contrite in just her robes, barefoot and hair uncovered to show her humility. She knocked lightly and he answered promptly. When she entered, he locked the door behind her. She found she couldn't raise her eyes to meet his; her shame was too great.

"Forgive me, Father. I have sinned gravely," she said, her words thick with emotion.

He could tell her remorse was genuine and he would expect nothing less of her. "You will be forgiven," he assured. His words were quiet but intense. "But you must first serve penance and be shriven of the sin of lust."

She winced when her sin was named and nodded. "I understand and willingly accept whatever you deem is just."

His mouth set in a grim line. "Physical sin calls for physical penance." He hesitated, then continued. No one would be benefited by his drawing things out. "Please go over to the closet door and face it. Strip to the waist and take hold of the doorknob. Do not release the doorknob until I permit you to do so. Do you understand, Sister?"

She cleared her throat. "Yes, Father."

Sister Jude did as he instructed but it was an awkward process. She lowered her top of her robe, allowing the thin belt to support the whole garment at her waist. She kept her front turned to the door, though she was certain the priest wouldn't try to see her bare upper body. Still it was quite an experience being topless in front of the man she had just been guilty of lusting after.

She gripped the doorknob and squeezed it tight. Then she shut her eyes and whispered another prayer for strength.

While she was preparing herself, the priest went over to the dresser and collected the leather flogger there. It had three supple lengths of horsehide bound in a solid black handle. He brought the tool over and took up a position behind her.

"May God forgive you," he murmured.

He raised his arm then and brought the flogger down. When it struck her back it sent fire through her skin, straight down through the muscle. She bit her lip to clamp down on the noise she wanted to make, reducing it to a choked whimper.

Monsignor Howard went slow, both to keep her cries of pain from getting too loud and to make her really feel the punishment. It was taxing for them both. When she left, Sister Jude was in agony and tears but composed enough to make it through the halls without notice. She went back to her chamber and spent the next few hours in prayer as she had nothing else to reach for.

After she left his room, the Monsignor stripped and turned the flogger on himself for the impure thoughts he'd had while castigating the nun.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

The doctor's become the patient, the patient's running the asylum, Sister Jude's getting punished... The world has gone mad!

Next time: Dandy tours his new kingdom. How will everyone react when they learn he's taking over?


	3. Chapter 3 - Dandy's Tour

The next day Dandy arrived with his entourage. By that time, the Monsignor had spoken with his superiors. The sale of Briarcliff had been a hasty but legal thing. When Dandy's representative approached them under the umbrella of an investment group, offering a considerable deal more than the facility was worth, the church had jumped at the chance. They would be rid of the debt the asylum had accumulated and might even be able to reopen some of the long-closed wings.

It was only after the deal was signed and everything notarized that they discovered who was actually financing the group and by then it was too late. Briarcliff, in title, belonged to Dandy Mott. There was nothing the church could do: They had no legal recourse and no financial leverage. To make an issue of an escaped patient owning the asylum would only call attention to the fact that they'd let him escape in the first place.

They were stuck with having a convicted murderer in charge.

One of the first things Dandy did was pay a visit to Dr. Heath. The chief surgeon wasn't exactly thrilled to see the young man but Dandy expected that. Dr. Heath was a smart man. When one outsmarted a smart man, there were bound to be some hard feelings. Dandy suspected he would be upset if someone outsmarted him. That was why he decided to meet with the doctor in private, man to man.

"I just want to say I am so very pleased to have this hospital in my portfolio," he told Dr. Heath enthusiastically.

"Why did you buy this place?" the doctor wanted to know. He had his theories but would rather hear it from the source. "If not to shut us down?"

Dandy smiled and sat up straighter. "I love Briarcliff! Why, it's the best thing to ever happen to me. No, really!" He could see the strange way Dr. Heath was looking at him. "Before I came here, I was angry. I wanted to hurt people. Now I understand my purpose. I have goals! A life! I was wasting away before in my mother's house. Doing nothing. Feeling nothing. Briarcliff changed all that!"

Heath was convinced the young man should still be locked up but he tactfully kept that to himself. "If you like Briarcliff, why did you escape?"

Dandy's smile took on a predatory edge. "Oh, but I didn't, doctor. I was released. You're going to sign the order yourself. And you're going to 'lose' any files you have here on me."

The doctor's brows knit. "What makes you think I'm going to do that?"

"Because, Doctor," Dandy said, sitting back in his chair. "If you don't, I'll blow the whistle on this place and have it shut down. You've nothing to lose by doing things my way and everything to lose if you don't. Now. Are we in business?"

—

After the issue with his paperwork was taken care of, Dandy continued his tour with his entourage: A lawyer and a bodyguard respectively. The next stop was Dr. Haddonfield's ward. Like Dr. Heath, the man had his own private tunnel of rooms filled with his experiments. Dandy introduced himself to the man since they hadn't met previously. He let the doctor know what to expect and moved on to the next, Dr. Pennhurst, and had a similar conversation. He trusted the department heads would let their underlings know anything they might need to.

Along the way he encountered his friend, Boyd. It was a disappointing encounter. The man's lobotomy had rendered him a verbal vegetable. He could still manage the basics: He could eat if he was given food. He could bathe himself if he was given soap. Conversation, however, was beyond the man.

Dandy decided to give Boyd the special position of Enforcer. Since he could follow basic instructions, Dandy knew he could tell him something like "Boyd, hit him" and the man would do it. Boyd still loved candies and he remembered that he liked Dandy. Between those things, he made a perfect brute for the rich man's cause.

Once he was finished debriefing the staff, Dandy went down to the common room. Protocol said he and his entourage had to have a facility escort so a pair of orderlies went with them. Both Cecil and Patrick knew who Dandy was and they exchanged looks behind the young man's back that said they both found it nuts to be giving an escaped inmate the royal treatment.

 _Dominique_ was playing on the record player when Dandy entered the commons. He noticed the holiday fir tree in the corner before catching sight of Violet at a nearby chair cluster. He smiled and headed her way, heedless to the fact that she was sitting next to Tate. The other young man mattered little to him.

"Violet!" he greeted enthusiastically when he was near enough to speak without having to raise his voice. "I told you I'd come back."

She looked up at him in open surprise, trying to sort out how he could be in the commons wearing a suit. The men behind him didn't help straighten things out at a glance. More suits and a pair of orderlies could mean anything.

He laughed at her obvious confusion. "I've purchased Briarcliff! It's my Christmas present to me!" He beamed a brilliant smile at her, feeling terribly clever. He opened his arms, expecting her to hug him.

"Wow," Violet said. She didn't get up. "Far out." A wrinkle appeared between her brows as she looked from him to the men behind him. The medication was surely interfering with her being able to understand this new development. "They're not going to lock you up?"

Dandy shook his head and lowered his arms. "My record is clean. I'm a free man! And the new owner of this fine facility."

Tate snorted derisively. He'd been trying to keep quiet but the pompous guy was chafing him just by being there. No one should be able to get away with the things Dandy was getting away with. All because he had money. It wasn't fair.

"Ah, my former roommate," Dandy said, looking the other young man over. Then he got an idea. "Cecil? Are they still doing the races?"

The buff orderly looked surprised. No one talked about the inmate fights or races openly. Not before, anyway. The man shifted his weight. "Yeah."

"Wonderful! I think our friend here would make an excellent contender," Dandy said quite seriously. "He has the spirit of an unbroken bronco. Make sure he's in the next race."

It sounded to Tate like the dark-haired guy was complimenting him but he didn't trust that one bit. "I don't race."

Dandy ignored him and focused on Violet instead. "Walk with me, Violet?"

And suddenly the girl found herself in an awkward spot. She looked at Tate, who looked back at her with wide, dark eyes.

"I won't keep you long," Dandy promised. "I just want to speak with you more privately before I have to leave."

Violet nodded and pushed herself up, finding that a reasonable request. "I'll be back," she told Tate, who was already starting to brood.

Dandy escorted her out of the commons, followed by his entourage. With two orderlies, a lawyer, a bodyguard, Boyd, and Violet now in the group, they were quite the assemblage, touring the place like royalty. Dandy hooked her arm and patted it. Technically physical contact wasn't permitted but neither of the orderlies said anything. They headed back through the halls, past the nurse's station.

"So, tell me," he said to her, leaning in toward her in a confidential way. "How have things been here since I left?"

Violet thought about that, fully aware of the staff ears nearby. "Same old, same old," she said carefully. "Do you really own this place now?"

"Lock, stock, and barrel!" Dandy beamed. Then he looked thoughtful. "I never quite understood what that meant. Daddy used to say it." He shrugged the matter off and smiled again. "And I have a surprise for you."

They stopped outside one of the rooms they usually reserved for invalids. He started to lead her in but paused to say to the group behind them: "Give us a moment, please?"

"I can't leave you alone with the patient," Patrick said, trying to adhere to protocol.

Dandy shifted his attention to the big man. He assessed him briefly then smiled a charming smile. "I appreciate you're trying to do your duty... Patrick, is it? Patrick. Yes. Your concern is noted but I own this place now. I make the rules and the rules say I can be alone with this patient. Do you have a problem with that?"

Pat cleared his throat. "No, sir."

Dandy's smile brightened. "If you'll excuse us."

He walked Violet into the room then and looked around. The room was spacious compared to the regular cells, having a bed in the center of the room and two night stands as well as counter space. The idea behind the invalid rooms was that they were to be used by patients who were bedridden or required large equipment to keep them alive. Without the life support machines, the room was cavernous to Violet.

"Welcome to your new room," Dandy told her. "Merry Christmas!"

She looked at him uncertainly, not sure if he was joking. "What?"

"You've been moved," he said. "This part of the ward is quieter and safer, plus you'll have all this space to yourself. No roommate, I've insisted."

She looked around at the room again, trying to believe the huge space was hers. "Why?"

He patted her arm before releasing her. "Because you deserve nice things. If you look in the nightstands, you'll find your things have already been moved. They're bringing clean bedding by later."

He went and sat on the edge of the bare mattress and raised his brows at her. A stray lock of dark hair slipped down over his forehead, giving him a rakish look. His cheeks were still scarred but it didn't harm his looks, to her eyes. It just gave him more of a rogue's air. "Is there anything else you'd like? A chair? A rug? Just ask."

She smiled crookedly at him, suddenly aware of how dumpy she must look. "A brush would be nice. I hate the combs here." She came over and sat down beside him. She was about to ask him about extra bedding when something finally penetrated the sedative haze. "Hey. You can fire people, can't you?"

Dandy shrugged. "Well, yes. That would come with being an owner, I suppose." He looked puzzled. "Is there someone you want fired?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "Max. God, I would love it if you fired that bastard."

Dandy had never had problems with the man so her vehemence surprised him. "Consider him as good as gone. What did he do?"

Violet hesitated and her lips made a lemony purse. "He abuses patients."

Dandy's brows knit. "How do you mean?" There was a pause then: "Did he do something to you?"

She glanced at him but didn't want to see his expression when she answered so she looked at her hands instead. "He makes the girls have sex with him." She thought about leaving it at that but the fire she wanted to set required the full amount of fuel. "Including me. I.. don't want to get into details, okay? I just want him gone."

Everything Dandy had been through over the past few months was nothing compared to the shock Violet's words gave him. In his world, the orderly had violently deflowered his maiden fair. The full body of rage that was growing out of that notion would require time to reach its full peak. For the moment he was too stunned to think.

"I... am very sorry, Violet," he said, struggling with his words. He grabbed her in a hard hug then. "I _will_ right this wrong. He'll pay for what he's done."

The words were simple but deadly in tone. Then he was up, off the bed and heading for the door. Violet wondered if she'd just started something she would regret later. After all, it was said that Dandy had killed a man before. But if he did kill Max, she knew it would make her happy. She never wanted his hands on her again.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I didn't outline a romance between Violet and Dandy. I keep hoping Violet will tell him to back off but I guess he's too charming or something. Maybe she's too drugged. I don't know why these characters are complicating a story I'm trying to wrap up in an episode-and-a-half.

Next time: Tate finally gets a visit from his mother. Do you think she'll bring him a present?


	4. Chapter 4 - Exposing Secrets

Tate sat at the table, knees bouncing. Despite the sedatives he was on, he was nervous. He kept picking at his cuticles and looking around anxiously even though there wasn't anything to look at. Not until the door opened and his mother walked into the visiting room.

He suffered a moment of indecision then. He almost got up but then dropped back down in his seat and shrank into himself. He was about to get up again but by then she'd reached the table. She paused, then sat down on the small bench across from him.

"Hello, sweetheart," she said in the most subdued way he'd ever heard her speak. She looked ready to cry.

Tate noticed then how short her hair was and how wan her complexion. She hardly looked like herself. He fidgeted and put his hands on the table. "Hi."

She reached over and put one of her hands on one of his. He laced his fingers with hers but still didn't want to look at her face for long. Her hair bothered him. She didn't look like herself.

"I've missed you," said Constance.

He shifted in his seat. "Me too." He said it mostly because it seemed like what she wanted to hear. He had done a fine job of putting her and the rest of his former life as far from his addled mind as he could.

There was a lapse then and she smiled self-consciously. "We're not supposed to talk about the outside world," she said apologetically. "Doesn't leave a lot to make small talk about."

"Never liked small talk," said Tate with a twitchy little shrug. It was weird having her worry about small talk in a place like this. "It's fake talk about shit nobody really wants to hear."

Her smile tightened. "True enough," she conceded. "But it has its uses." She glanced over at the guard, who was cleaning his fingernails with a toothpick.

"Why'd you cut your hair?"

"Do you like it?" Constance said, self-consciously touching the bob. "It's _en vogue_."

He wrinkled his nose without meaning to. "It looks like boy hair."

She smiled faintly. "Please. Don't spare my feelings."

"You asked," he pointed out. "Do you want me to lie to you?"

"No," she said, patting his hand. "I don't." She pulled a deep breath then and released it in a short, sharp sigh. She leaned in closer so she could speak confidentially. "Tate, Mama needs you to do something."

A little wrinkle appeared between his brows at the shift in tone. "What?"

"Your former doctor. Oliver Thredson." She spat the name like it was poison. "He's an inmate at Briarcliff now."

Tate's eyes widened, then his brows crunched down. "Nuh-uh." But her face said she believed what she told him, which gave him pause. "Really? Why?"

His free hand fidgeted as he continued to digest that initial bit of news. While the doctor had some strange methods, his were no stranger than any others employed at the hospital. Why would they strip him of his rank and bust him down to patient? That made no sense in Tate's sheltered world.

"He's the Bloody Face Killer," his mother said in a very low voice. "He did horrible things to at least five women and then he killed them."

Tate looked at her hand, the one holding his. Her nails were much shorter than she usually kept them. Hers were always long and tapered, something no maid or manual laborer could maintain. They were what she called 'active length' now—something she derided as being fit only for piano instructors and secretaries.

Her words finally penetrated through the medicinal fog he was under and the teen frowned in earnest. His doctor had killed five women? "Why?"

"Who knows?" she dismissed incredulously. "That's not what's important. That bastard—"

She had to stop for a moment. She looked away, checking the guard's position as she steeled her resolve. She needed to tell her son what had happened in order for him to understand what she needed him to do. She couldn't do that if she was crying. When she'd forced the lump down out of her throat she forced herself to look at him again. Her expression was intense.

"He hurt your Mama. And now I need you to kill him."

...

 _Dominique, nique, nique s'en allait tout simplement_

 _Routier pauvre et chantant_

 _En tous chemins, en tous lieux, il ne parle que do bon Dieu_

 _Il ne parle que do bon Dieu_

The record player in the common room ground through the same song as always, even though it was a week till Christmas. One could only tell it was the season because of the big fir tree staff had brought in and propped in the corner. Some of the patients had made simple ornaments for it but those had to be hung high up so the higher-risk inmates wouldn't get to them. Vita kept trying to put things on the tree that didn't belong there, like her socks. She understood the concept of decorating the tree but not the abstract ideas behind what was an acceptable ornament.

Billie Dean sat in one of the sour-smelling old chairs, discreetly writing in a palm-sized notebook.

"What are you writing?" Heather asked her.

The poor girl was looking strung out and too thin. Her experience with the exorcism had taken a toll on her health but she was more lively that day than she had been the past two days.

"I'm recording what life is like here," said Billie Dean, in a tone meant only for the girl who was sitting in the chair beside her. "I'm going to finish what John started. When I get out of here, I'm going to expose this place."

"How?"

The medium looked down at her notebook and golf pencil. "I know some publishers who will read anything I hand them. Someone will want to publish this."

Heather looked uncertain. "Won't that get you in trouble?"

"Not once I'm out of here," Billie Dean said confidently.

"But what if they catch you? Like they did John?"

The other woman hesitated and looked over at the man in question. He was sitting in front of the Christmas tree. Just sitting there. His hair was a mess and he hadn't changed his clothes in days. He never had a notebook with him anymore, which was like seeing a mustached man shaven. John didn't look like John anymore. John wasn't John anymore. Whoever he was now, he was unreachable. He would look at a person when he was spoken to, and he could follow basic commands, but he didn't talk or emote. He didn't do anything but sit there.

Billie Dean put on a fake smile that trembled at the edges. "I just won't get caught."

...

Tate didn't want to believe his mother about Dr. Thredson. He'd spent too much time alone with the man, sharing private thoughts and feelings, to be able to accept the truth easily. He couldn't believe the doctor he had spent all that time with him, faking a personality that wasn't really him.

The Dr. Thredson the teen thought he knew was some sort of fictional character, and the real Oliver Thredson was an insane stranger who carved up women and tortured Tate's mother. He wanted it to be a lie but it ate at him. While she wasn't above lying to him, it was such a specific thing and there were so many little details. Things she hadn't even said, like her odd appearance, and why she would ask Tate to do something she knew would get him in more trouble.

He planned to confront the doctor after dinner but the man came into their shared room while the teen was pacing and waiting for meal line-up. As soon as he saw Thredson, Tate knew he had to say something.

"I saw Constance today."

Oliver's brows hiked up. "Oh?" There was a subtle shift in his expression that Tate would have missed if he wasn't looking for signs of guilt. "How did that go?"

Tate's fingers curled and uncurled as his body tensed for action. He could see the nervousness in the man's dark eyes and knew everything his mother had told him was true. "How many times have you been to my house?" The words were casual. His expression was blank.

Thredson frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about. What did your mother say to you, Tate?"

"Did you hurt her?"

Thredson kept his expression in check this time. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course I didn't. Now I'd advise you to settle down before I have to call for the orderlies."

The man's demeanor was flawless but Tate didn't believe him. If anything, the man's calm only made him seem more guilty. Constance had no reason to lie at this point, not that he could think of. When she described what the man did to her, he could tell she was genuinely traumatized, her trauma evincing itself in barely-bridled rage. But while the dark-haired man wasn't a doctor any longer, if he hollered for the orderlies, there was a good chance someone would show up and make Tate's life hell. It would be much easier to get the man after light's out. So the teen turned on a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm cool, doc," he said, raising his hands. "I figured she was just trying to mess with me so I'd fuck up. But I had to ask."

Thredson wasn't buying the sudden retreat but he pretended to. "I understand. It's a impressive you want to look out for her, considering everything she's put you through."

Tate blinked, pricked by the subtle barb. "Yeah. Pretty stupid, huh?"

The former doctor smiled tolerantly. "No. It's natural to care about one's family."

"Line up!" an orderly barked from the hall.

Thredson made sure Tate left the room first.

—

That night after lights out, Oliver lay tense on the mattress, his back to the wall. He didn't dare shut his eyes. He knew Tate's mentality too well. For the first time ever, he felt the boy was a danger to him. The murders in the clock tower were all on paper. The names, the people; they weren't real until now.

Tate had shot 42 people. One by one, he'd picked them off without remorse or reason the doctor had managed to ferret out, apart from the tumor. Despite the surgery to remove the growth, the teen hadn't shown a great deal of change in his behavioral patterns. In the months Thredson had been treating him, the patient was still having regular violent outbursts, and that was while he was being medicated. Self control, for Tate, seemed to be an act rather than a skill. Which meant it was only a matter of time before he removed the mask.

It took a couple of hours but Thredson detected it, the moment the teen started to move. The cot creaked as Tate left it and he paused in the darkness. Oliver kept his eyes half-shut so as to appear asleep in the dim moonlight that came through the narrow high-set window. Then Tate crept forward. Thredson decided he was close enough and started to sit up but the other inmate leapt on him as soon as he moved.

It was an instant struggle as Tate tried to get his hands around Thredson's throat. The older man was ready for him, though, and defended himself, bringing a knee up into his former patient's side. It was an awkward angle so it didn't hurt his attacker much but it did keep Tate busy enough that he couldn't get his hands on the man's neck.

"HELP!" Thredson hollered. "I'm being attacked!"

The shout startled some of the other inmates. One started whooping down the hall. Another yelled "Shaddup!" but the man kept whooping.

Tate scooted up, trying to pin his adversary. Thredson expected staff to come running but his shout went unanswered as he wrestled with the teen. Anger at the lack of response provided him a burst of adrenaline that he put to use. He flipped Tate over onto his back. The younger man hit the floor with a soft whuff of lost breath. He started to scramble up but Oliver kicked him in the head. He sprawled out, briefly stunned.

"Tate!" Thredson said sharply as he got to his feet and off the mattress. He scrambled for the door but it was, of course, locked. He put his back to it. "Stop this at once! I know this situation has you very confused but attacking me will only make things worse for you!"

The young man rubbed his head and got to his feet as well. "You hurt my mother!"

"Orderlies!" Thredson yelled out the tiny window. More noise echoed back from the other inmates, who seemed to be the only ones paying attention. Addressing Tate once more, he said: "I have no reason to hurt your mother. If she said I did, I can assure you it's because she doesn't want you released. Why do you think she hasn't tried to see you before now? She doesn't want you back in her life, Tate. I've tried to spare you that reality but she's afraid of you."

Tate had shortened the distance between them but he held off further attack because the man was making too much sense. He didn't want to listen but the man's explanation made more sense than the reality of the situation. His head started to feel pressurized and he rubbed the spot where the former doctor had kicked him.

"My head hurts."

The cell door opened then, making Oliver stumble. He quickly ducked out into the hall where Jonas, a big bald orderly who was part of the prison work release program, shoved his way between the patients.

"I was his therapist," he told the orderly. "My being his roommate has caused him to have a psychotic break." He could see the way the man was looking at him and it irritated him but he kept his tone in check. "He just tried to strangle me. If you put us back in there together, one of us will be dead in the morning. Briarcliff doesn't need another body to dispose of right now."

Tate squinted at him and started forward. Jonas didn't really know either patient's criminal history. He just knew what he'd experienced the past few months, dealing with Tate as a patient and Thredson as a boss. He sided with the former doctor and intercepted the younger man.

"Another body?" Tate asked as he was seized. He didn't resist but Jonas manhandled him anyway, hustling him out into the hall. "What do you mean, Doctor Thredson?"

"Back to your room," Jonas told Oliver, who used the excuse to get out of sight.

Oliver thought about going back to the mattress on the floor but he knew Tate would be in solitary for the rest of the night, or at least in someone else's cell. So he took the cot. It was the best night of sleep he had since entering Briarcliff as a patient.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Merry Christmas!

Insanity doesn't take a holiday here. But I don't think Tate was too serious about killing Thredson or he would have succeeded. I think maybe he did just enough to convince himself (and his mother) that he tried. He had the doc convinced, anyway.

Next time: Dandy's calling the shots now. Brace yourself for the changes that are coming.


	5. Chapter 5 - Shocking Developments

Oliver peered at Dandy in suspicious confusion. The younger man was seated at a desk in one of the vacated counselor's offices, Thredson seated in the chair across from him. The hooded light overhead needed a new bulb and flickered periodically, making the shadows dance.

After the broken night's sleep and chaotic events of the night, the next morning's abrupt development was hard to process.

"I'm being reinstated," he repeated slowly, pushing his glasses up. "That's what you're saying?"

Dandy smiled proudly. "Dr. Pennhurst is drawing up the paperwork right now. Mr. Joseph's confession exonerates you completely. He's already been taken into custody by the police and the court proceedings to have you cleared of all charges should be finalized before the end of the week. You're expected in court two days from now. Once that little legal hoop is jumped, you'll be fully reinstated publicly. In the meantime, there's no reason to keep you locked in a cell. You'll have your old office back. You can use it as your apartment until your public release."

Though it sounded like a prayer answered, Oliver couldn't blindly accept the offer. "Why do you want to help a murderer? Aren't you concerned I might do it again?"

Dandy made a thoughtful little frown and folded his hands on the desk. "The thought had occurred to me," he admitted, brows high. "But I think you've learned your lesson. Besides, if you really feel the need to make more lady-masks, there's a whole asylum of them right here to pick from. You shouldn't be trying to keep people in your house. That's just silly!"

Thredson stared at the young man. Dandy seemed genuinely amused. His capacity for trivializing murder was fascinating. "You would let me do that here?"

"Why not?" Dandy spread his hands. "All of the top doctors in this place have their secret burrows where they do nefarious things. I really don't know why you should be the exception. There are probably even some empty rooms in the tunnels somewhere you could make your own."

Oliver scratched his temple and cleared his throat. Dandy's logic was peculiar but precise. Pennhurst and Freeman, even Heath, had done atrocious things in Briarcliff's operating theaters and recovery rooms. Thredson had seen many personally. Why should he be the one they hung out to dry, simply because he hadn't been allotted the same space to work that they had claimed? Taken from that perspective, the man felt a little outraged. Then he reminded himself who he was dealing with.

"That sounds like a generous offer," he said with a polite smile. "I'm happy to accept."

—

Two days later, the news was all over the papers and television. Thredson was cleared of all charges related to the Bloody Face murders and some half-wit h janitor at Briarcliff was offered up in his stead. The man was tried quickly and found guilty, then shipped right back to the asylum as a maximum security patient. Then he was put right back to work.

Tate found himself in the ECT room, strapped down on a table. His loud protests were silenced with a rubber bit that one of the nurses shoved into his mouth and belted in place.

Dr. Thredson's face hovered into view above him. "I'm sorry it's come to this," the man said. "But you've had a psychotic break. You've gotten very confused about who I am and what has happened, but we'll fix things, Tate. I promise. After electroshock, you'll feel _much_ better."

Tate tried to shout him down but the foul-tasting rubber bit smothered the words. He felt the nurse swab his temples and he tried to wriggle free but they had his head secured to the table by then. He could barely move.

Dr. Thredson put the stethoscope-like tool in place, the cotton-wrapped ends firmly seated against his temples. Then the man gave a nod to the tech, who hit the release button that sent wave after wave into Tate's abused skull. He stiffened, unable to think about anything but the white-hot energy flowing through his body from his brain.

At some point, the shock therapy ended. He wasn't sure when. He blacked out several times before that happened, and a few times after. Eventually found himself wandering the halls. He had no idea where he was supposed to be going. His legs were wet. He wasn't sure if he'd spilled something on himself or if he'd pissed his pants without knowing it. He didn't care. He started to feel shaky as his nervous system experienced a delayed reaction to the ECT. Exhausted and beyond caring, Tate went to the nearest wall where he sank to the floor. He let the cold hard surface prop him. It felt nice to be supported.

He stayed that way till the inmates were all rounded up for dinner.

—

"Tate? What's wrong?"

Violet's voice reached him from a long way away. Her face swam into view and he smiled dimly at her. "Hi."

"They shocked him."

Tate heard Heather's voice but she was gone before he could find her face.

"Come on," said Violet. With effort she helped get Tate on his feet. "It's time to go to the cafeteria. You'll get in trouble if you stay here."

She helped him as far as the mezzanine but Byron and Carl stopped them at the doors in.

"Line up," said Carl.

Men and women had their own lines.

"Can I help him over there?" Violet asked. "They shocked him and he's kind of spaced out."

The orderlies looked unmoved.

"Come on, man," the girl petitioned Carl. "I'll just help him over there. One of the guys can take it from there."

"No," the stocky man said. "He walks on his own and so do you. Get in line, missy, unless you're looking for trouble."

Violet knew if she wasn't medicated that she could come with a suitably scathing response. As it was, she had to settle for the blunt truth. "If I let go of him, he'll fall down."

"And that's my problem how?" Carl smirked. Byron snorted a laugh.

"I'm fine," Tate interjected. He had cottoned onto the fact that Violet was getting herself into trouble. "I'm groovy."

He pulled away from her and stumbled toward the men's line. It was like trying to cross the deck of a ship in a storm. He almost fell but a guy who believed he was Teddy Roosevelt caught him.

"My good man!" Teddy exclaimed. "Are you ill?"

Tate righted himself and brushed the guy's hands off his shoulders. "Yeah. No." He gave a weak laugh. "What?"

The line was moving. After another look askance at him, Teddy moved with it. Tate slouched along after him, taking it slowly so he didn't fall again. He wondered where Violet went but he was afraid if he looked around, he would get lost. So he watched President Roosevelt's well-worn slippers and followed the line to his seat.

He had no appetite for the meal they were served. The boiled meat was chewy and flavorless. The corn was pale and hard. Both were as cold as the room, which was chilly enough to make his nose run. He was so wiped out, he didn't even guard his food. Slowly it disappeared as other patients plucked it up.

Soon the pill line formed. Tate got his regular shot. The one Dr. Thredson prescribed him. Thinking about the man confused him more. Was he a doctor? Or a patient? If he was a patient, how could he dispense ECT? Had Tate imagined him being a patient?

As the injected sedative went to work and compounded the effects of the electroshock, the nagging questions dissolved. He faintly wished Violet was near. Then he slipped into the numbness of not thinking at all.

—

* * *

Author's Note:

A long-overdue update. I got swept up in my Armageddon fic and I've been working on getting a book published. I haven't forgotten about my Briarcliff peeps though! In fact, you can see a cameo mention of Thredson in a recent Armageddon chapter I posted.

It's interesting having Dandy in charge of the asylum. A psychotic murderer in charge of a team of doctors who are even worse than he is. Yikes.

Next time: Thredson is cleared publicly of wrongdoing. He also has unfinished business with Constance.


	6. Chapter 6 - Descent into Bedlam

The world faded in and out, for Tate. He got shoved around by the orderlies a lot because he didn't know where he was going. At one point he found himself out in the gray yard. Snow drifted down, kissing his skin with stinging cold that disappeared slower and slower. He realized dimly that he was out in the snow without a coat or shoes. There were others around but nobody talked.

The asylum faded away into nothing for a while and hours slipped by without his notice. His next moment of clarity came when he was surrounded by loud people. Inmates and orderlies were behind him and way down the hall in front of him, shouting. Some were waving their hands frantically.

"Run!" they were hollering.

There was another guy beside Tate who had a fresh incision on his temple, stitched sloppily with black catgut. Someone shoved Tate in the back, hard, and he stumbled forward.

"Run, you brainless shit!" the burly guard barked at him. "I got money on you!"

Someone else pushed the other guy and cheers from the other end of the hall let Tate know he'd done good. He kept heading that way and heard the cheers strengthen. It was hard to walk, though. The floor felt like it was lumpy and moving, an effect of the treatments and medication he'd been given lately. He had to keep his eyes on the tile, or the world would start to sway so violently, he felt like he would throw up. Looking down also allowed him to keep an eye on the other guy's dirty socks behind him. Tate was in the lead, if only by a few steps. Once upon a time, he had run track in school. He was out of practice and not at all in the right condition to run anywhere but the competitive instinct was still there.

He was almost three-quarters of the way to the other end of the hall where the rest of the jeering and cheering audience waited. Victory was in his sight and it meant everything in that brain-scrambled moment. Then he felt the other guy grab the back of his shirt.

Tate tried to tug free, but the other patient had a strong hold on him. Brawling would take too much effort, so he slipped out of the shirt and kept going. Soon he reached the far end and was celebrated with much jostling and slaps on the back, some hard enough to leave red marks. Money was passed between staff members, and even a few inmates who were sober enough to keep track of such things.

Then world faded out again and the next clear thing he knew, he was back in his usual cell. He hurt all over and didn't know why. It was easier to sleep than it was to figure out anything. He had nightmares but blessedly wouldn't remember them the next groggy morning.

...

Rain pattered on the roof and made the evening darker than dark. Constance had the television on for background noise, so she wouldn't feel alone. Though Tate's presence at home had been an unpredictable one at times, she missed him most on nights like this—stormy, lonely nights. She had just finished an unsatisfying frozen TV dinner in front of the Lawrence Welk Show and was cleaning up the tinfoil mess when she felt a cold breeze on her ankles, below her house robe.

"Hello, Constance."

She heard Thredson's quiet voice right behind her and she turned on him, dropping the tin tray in her haste. It hit the floor with a loud metallic clatter. Peas and carrots scattered across the floor.

"What are you doing here?" the woman demanded, covering her fear with indignant outrage. "Get out of my house!"

"Now, now," Thredson chided, taking slow steps across the kitchen toward her. He was dressed for the cold weather outside: A heavy black wool overcoat hid his clothes and he wore leather gloves. "Is that any way to treat the man you just swore in court had nothing to do with your abduction?"

"I only retracted my testimony because you said you'd have them lobotomize Tate if I didn't."

"That's what I've come here to discuss with you," the man said in that deceptively genial tone of his. "The future of your son's treatment plan."

He drew closer, moving with the same slow deliberation he would show a volatile patient at Briarcliff. Constance backed away from him, angling toward a butcher block of knives she kept next to the refrigerator.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, to distract him from her actions. "I already did what you told me to!"

He favored her a tolerant smile. She pressed up against the cabinet behind her. If she timed it right, she thought she could sneak one of the knives out without his noticing.

"And I've upheld my end of the deal," he responded calmly. "Your son won't be undergoing a lobotomy, but in order for him to improve, he needs strong family support. You can't give that to him on your own and certainly not from here. You know that and so does he. The best way to give him the stability he needs is for you to move back in with me and for us to be a real family."

Constance stared at him, stunned by the intricacy of his insanity. "Move back in with you."

"Yes," he insisted, suddenly grabbing her nearest hand. "He needs a mother and a father who understand his special needs. We need each other. You. Me. Tate. A family."

Using her hand as leverage, he pulled her away from the cabinet, out of reach of the knives. She tried to resist but he pulled harder, forcing her to follow him down the back hall and into her bedroom.

"Pack a bag—just what you'll need for the next couple of nights. Briarcliff will provide us with better living quarters soon." He stopped then and pulled her close to him, his dark eyes intense when they met hers. "You _do_ want your son to get better, don't you?"

She wanted to scream; to beat his chest with her fists. Her instincts screamed at her to fight him, but more level-headed inner voice urged her to bide her time. If she tried to fight him off now, she had no idea what might happen. He had the advantage for the time being. He held all the cards.

"Of course I do," she said, trying to sound less rattled than she was. "But you can't just barge into a lady's home unannounced and expect her to be ready in an instant. I need time to gather my things and get my house in order if I'm to leave it for a time. And I'll need to get dressed. I'm hardly presentable in this."

He glanced down and took in the white house robe and thin nightie she wore beneath. "Very well. But just the things you'll need immediately. You don't need to pack a large wardrobe just now. We'll be staying at Briarcilff for the time being."

She hoped he would let her alone to pack but he stayed with her the whole time, keenly observing everything she put into her two pieces of luggage. He wouldn't even let her alone in the bathroom and he insisted she leave behind things like the bottle of aspirin and her razor. She was able to slip a nail kit in past his notice. She only hoped it would help somehow when they got to the asylum.

...

Max the orderly woke to dull pain in the side of his head. He tried to ignore it, but the pain persisted, even when he held perfectly still. Coming fully awake, bright light stabbed his eyes. He blinked several times and tried to sort out where he was. When he attempted to lift his arm to shield his vision, he found it belted firmly to the side of a metal table. Panic flooded him as he found all of his limbs were strapped down in the same fashion.

"Oh, there he is," a chipper voice said from somewhere above him.

The light kept Max from seeing anything beyond its harsh glow. He didn't need to strain though; Dandy leaned in close enough for the bound man to see his smiling face. The scars distorted the expression into a caricature.

"Hello there," Dandy greeted. Then his brows went up and he put on his serious face for the man. "You've been a very bad boy. Haven't you?"

"I don't know whatcher talking about," Max said, torn between anger and fear. The last thing he remembered was walking the halls during inmate free time. To judge from the pain in the back of his head, someone walloped him a good one from behind.

"Oh, sure you do!" Dandy crowed merrily. He propped a hip on the table so he could get closer to the man, putting an arm around his head so he could pet Max's dark hair. "You like fucking the girl patients. Even the ones who don't want you to."

"That's a lie!" Max yelped. "Whoever told you that is a fucking liar! Let me outta here. You can't do this to me!"

"Shh," Dandy soothed. When Max didn't shush, he planted a palm firmly over the orderly's mouth, pressing down hard. It was the only outward crack in his veneer of pleasant geniality. "Shh! Don't waste our time with nonsense. We both know you're guilty as sin. And this being a hospital of God…well. Sins can't go unpunished!"

He let go of Max and hopped up from the table. "Doctor Haddonfield? I believe your first specimen is prepped and ready for 'treatment'."

The surgeon was likewise prepped, outfitted in heavy rubber gloves and a black apron brought up from the morgue. He had a sterile mask on his face and a ball gag in his hands. "Thank you, Mr. Mott. Today, we break new ground in the field of medical science."

Even with the ball gag firmly secured in Max's mouth, the sounds of his screams as the doctor autopsied him alive could still be heard echoing down the corridors of the underground tunnels for several minutes after Dandy left the doctor to his new 'research'.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

I think it's pretty funny that we've had a Joker-fied Dandy running the asylum here and now WB's released _Joker_ in the theaters. Timing!

This chapter was largely inspired by true tales from notorious asylums, which is partly why the chapter's name is what it is. Bedlam is the world's oldest mental asylum. It was the first and it's likely to be the last of its kind, if things keep going the way they have been.

Most "mental health care" these days revolves around chemical lobotomies: Shoveling drugs into patients to turn them into passive, living zombies. It's easier and better on the pocketbook for many so-called therapists to just lob pills at the patient and collect a paycheck. That's even poked at some in American Horror Story's first season.

Next time: Haddonfield helps with the overcrowding situation and Thredson gets a surprise.


End file.
